17. Charlie
Charlie
My brain feels like static, nothing but white noise and Nikolaus’s words, echoing over and over, “I won’t be done until your little boycunt is stuffed full and dripping Daddy’s cum.”
My body feels boneless, and I’m pretty sure my face is covered in tears and drool. I legitimately can’t remember the last time I was this horny.
Niko—no, Daddy now—folds me in half, my ass in the air and my dick precariously close to my mouth. I’m being pressed against the seat of the couch as Daddy pulls my cheeks apart and looks at my hole.
“Oh, baby boy, it’s fucking mouthwatering.” He then looms over me, pushing two fingers past my lips. “Get them nice and wet, baby.” I let saliva build in my mouth and sloppily suck at the thick digits pressed against my tongue. “That’s it. Good boy. Such a perfect boy, Charlie.”
The fingers come out with a wet pop, and then I’m spread wide, and Daddy’s thumb is tracing circles on my rim.
I barely get a second to process before two thick digits jab straight into me. They’re huge, unyielding, and I let out a ragged yelp that ricochets off the ceiling.
I think I’ve released a monster. He looks crazed, almost angry. It’s so much more intense than how he’s been playing with me, but I think I love it. I like it softer too, I like it a lot, but something in me craves this, craves the power that comes with making a man savage with need.
It burns so badly, but I want it, I need it, and I can’t stop squirming against his grip. He works me open with zero patience, twisting and scissoring and then, apparently, deciding that’s enough because the next thing I feel is the blunt head of his cock pressing in.
He spits on it, mutters “good enough,” and then starts pushing. It isn’t a gentle push; it’s one long, brutal glide, splitting me around him. I feel every millimeter, and I can’t stay quiet—I’m babbling, moaning, half-crying, “Daddy, it’s too much, no, Daddy, please—”
“You can take it,” he growls, voice deadly soft in my ear. “You were made for this. Daddy’s gonna ruin you.”
He starts thrusting, and it’s just relentless.
Every stroke rearranges my guts, makes my vision go white at the edges.
My own cock bounces with every thrust, leaking pre all over my face, chest, and the couch.
I’m drooling into the cushion, tears streaming down my nose, and Daddy’s only fucking me harder, using me like I’m just an object, a toy to fuck until it breaks.
He’s not even trying for rhythm—he’s jackhammering in and out, hands locked around my hips so tight I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
It should be terrifying, but all I can think about is how good it feels, how empty I was until now.
My insides are boiling, like my brain’s been boiled out and all that’s left is the need for more.
“Listen to yourself,” he laughs, pushing my thighs even further back. “There’s no going back from this, Charlie. You love it when Daddy pampers you, treats you—fuck—so sweet, and now you love Daddy fucking your guts.”
I try to protest, but I can’t even form a word. It’s just sounds, desperate cries and squeals every time he lands deep. I’m so close I could die.
He leans forward, his beard scraping my ear, and hisses, “Do you want them to hear you, Charlie? Want everyone to know what a perfect baby boy you are for me?”
I shake my head, or I think I do, but he doesn’t buy it. His hand snakes up and clamps over my mouth, pinning my head to the couch.
“You’re gonna scream Daddy’s name like the filthy little slut you are, and no one’s gonna stop it, not ever.” He fucks me even harder, impossibly more, and I have no choice but to sob and writhe, the world reduced to the wet slap of skin and the thunder of Daddy’s hips against my ass.
I’m going to come. I can’t help it, can’t hold anything back with the way he’s destroying me. The only warning is a choked-off whimper—my body shakes apart around his cock, and I erupt, untouched, splattering my own face, Daddy’s hand, and the couch.
“Goddamn, you really are Daddy’s little cumslut, aren’t you?
” His voice is reverent, hungry, and mean.
He fucks me through it, never slowing down, never giving me a second to come down.
I can feel every squelch as he pistons inside, my hole helplessly gripping him, already too sensitive, already desperate for more.
I try to push him away instinctively, but he just laughs, circling his hips and pinning me even tighter. “No, no, baby boy. This is what you wanted. This is what you need.”
I want to say no, beg him to stop, but there’s no air, no language left in my skull.
I sob into his hand, writhing as he fucks me even deeper.
I’m trembling so hard it feels like my body’s gone into shock, like I might vibrate straight through the fucking floor.
My legs are cramping, my ass feels split wide, everything is raw and wet and loud.
He keeps going, keeps pounding me, and I can’t get my breath, can’t stop the animal noises that are tearing out of my throat.
I’m so wrecked I barely notice it at first—that different kind of pressure, low and urgent, building in my guts.
The wet slap of his cock inside me is making it worse every time he slams home.
I shake my head, desperate, try to twist away, but he’s got me locked up so tight all I can do is whimper and choke on my own drool.
My bladder gives a warning spasm, and I try to clench, try so hard not to, but it’s useless.
I piss all over myself; there’s no other word for it.
It explodes out of me, hot and sudden, soaking my body.
I feel it splatter down my belly, dripping down and pooling under my ribs.
The humiliation is so intense it almost sobers me up, but not enough—I’m crying harder now, the sound trapped under Daddy’s hand, but the mortification just makes my cock twitch again, half-hard even after I already came.
Nikolaus sees it and jerks to a stop, cock still buried to the hilt, and for a second, I’m sure he’s going to pull out, maybe even yell at me, maybe even shove me off the couch in disgust. For the first time since this started, I’m actually scared.
I try to apologize, but I’m still gagged by his hand, so it comes out as a pathetic, high whine.
But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t pull out. Instead, his whole body goes rigid, and then he lets out a sound I’ve never heard from him before—a full-body, desperate groan. He looks down, staring at the mess, and I swear his eyes actually roll back for a second.
“God, look at you,” he whispers, and the hand on my face gentles for just one beat, the pad of his thumb swiping some drool off my chin. “You are the filthiest little baby, aren’t you? You can’t help it. You’re absolutely helpless, aren’t you, Charlie?”
He starts to rock again, slow at first, like he’s savoring it, and I feel him rutting against my ass even deeper than before.
Every thrust pushes the sticky mess further against my skin, and I can’t tell if I’m crying or just leaking everywhere.
I’m so empty and so full at the same time, filled up with Daddy’s cock and my own shame.
He bends over, his chest pressing my knees to my chest, and licks a long stripe up my cheek. “You’re gonna remember this every time you piss yourself, baby,” he says, his voice so low it sounds almost like a growl. “You won’t ever forget who did this to you.”
Then he comes.
He shoves deep, grinding me flat into the cushion, and his cock bulges inside me, heat erupting in thick pulses that I can feel. I can feel everything; I can feel myself stretched and clenching and milking him dry.
Daddy’s hands are shaking, arms locked around me like he could fuse us together, and his breathing is all snarled up in my hair. There’s so much noise in my head, I don’t even know if I’m making sounds or just thinking about making them.
Somewhere in the blur, I realize I’m being rocked—his whole body holding mine, still fucking, as if he doesn’t ever want to stop.
He bites into my neck again, hard enough to hurt, and the pain is almost a relief compared to the overflow of everything else.
I think I pass out for a second because when I blink, I’m on my back, and Daddy’s thumb is rubbing circles on my cheek, his face so close I can taste his breath.
“Stay with me, baby,” he says.
I try to focus, but the world keeps sliding away.
My skin is on fire, but I’m shivering. Daddy’s still inside me, and I’m sticky everywhere, and the couch stinks like sex and…
me. My nose wrinkles, but Daddy’s hands never stop moving, petting my face, my hair, my chest—wherever he can reach.
And then, with some small, gentle effort, he slips free, and the sensation is so bizarrely cold and hollow that I gasp, my hole clenching on nothing.
“You did so good, baby,” he says, voice gone soft again. He keeps saying it, like it’s a lullaby, as he lifts me up, wraps me in his arms, and a towel—when did he get a towel?—and stands me on unsteady legs.
I tip sideways, and Daddy just catches me, scooping me up, throwing the towel over my shoulder where it does approximately nothing.
My body starts to shake, so hard I feel my bones rattle, and he holds me closer, almost crushing me against his chest. He doesn’t care that I’m leaking all over him, doesn’t care that the towel’s already soaked through, doesn’t even care that I’m still crying.
“Shhhh,” he says, mouth pressed to the top of my head. “I’ve got you. Daddy’s got you.”
Daddy carries me upstairs at some point, still whispering, still holding me like something expensive and fragile.